Dreams and Touch
I had a dream last night,
on MLK Day,
but it had nothing to do with that man.
It had everything to do with another,
who stands separated by a fence,
closed-off, unemotional, agitated.
“Hello, Sabrina,” he says,
“Hey, what’s up,” I offer.
I can feel my body tense, suddenly aware of how my bikini hugs my body in the 62-degree sunshine.
I let the forced pleasantry hang in the air and then tediously continue on its way as I overanalyze every movement he made and look he gave.
But tonight, while asleep, I dream of locking eyes and walking along that fence, through the gate, up his staircase, meeting halfway and saying, with confidence, “I’m going to hug you.”
And I do.
Because I’m tired of this awkwardness and discontent.
I’ve experienced the most intimate of moments with him, and the way we are now is anything but intimate.
I force the hug on him, breath in his smell, feel the way his body tenses and then relaxes into mine. Words and looks and thoughts have muddied the water—I let our bodies do the talking.